Breakfast
by j-orbanski
Summary: John loved having breakfasts with his mum as a teen. He tries to recreate these moments within 221B some mornings. He makes his eggs, always over easy, he smothers his toast in butter and jam, he drinks his tea.


**056.) Breakfast **

**Author:** Jordan  
**Fandom:** Sherlock BBC  
**Pairing:** Sherlock / John  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 979  
**Disclaimer:** Only borrowing the characters, nor profit, etc.  
**Summary:** John loved having breakfasts with his mum as a teen. He tries to recreate these moments within 221B some mornings.  
**Notes:** Written for my 100 prompts in 200 days.

* * *

When John woke on weekend mornings as a teen, the smell of frying bacon lingered in the air, wafting through the small slit under his door. He would scramble into his dressing gown and slippers before he ripped open his door and ran down the stairs.

His mother would be at the counter, whipping up egg whites to fold into her waffle batter. Fresh strawberries macerated in a bowl on the table, and he was tempted to grab a spoon and whipped cream and eat the entire bowl, screw waiting for the waffles to be ready.

"Good morning!" She smiled brightly at him, putting down the whisk and pulling out a chair for him at the table in the center of the room, her blonde hair shining from the light streaming in from the window behind the sink. She poured him a cup of tea from the kettle on the stove, adding the two sugars the dash of milk she knew he liked.

He snatched a slice of bacon from the plate on the counter as he sat down to his tea.

"Waffles or eggs and toast, dear?"

"Both, please," he replied, as his never-satisfied hunger grew in the pit of his stomach. He was glad he played rugby so much, if it wasn't for that, they'd have to roll him places, full of his mother's cooking.

While the waffle batter set, his mother fried him a couple eggs in the bacon grease, toast flying out of the toaster. He smothered the toast in butter and his mother's homemade raspberry jam before he tore the crusts off. The eggs, over easy, golden yolk still oozy as he broke into it with the side of his fork. Two eggs and two slices of toast, but he was still hungry.

He heard the sizzle of the waffle iron as she dolloped a cupful of batter into its wells, steam leaking over the sides as she closed the lid.

"Just a few minutes," she stated as she refilled his tea and took his yolky plate away.

He loved these mornings, spending breakfasts alone with his mum, no lesbian Harry to yell about, no drunken father to break her spirits. It was these moments he cherished.

Soon, the waffles were ready. His mother set the plate of two waffles in front of him to add strawberries and cream to. He stood up, grabbed another plate from the cabinet and put one of his strawberry-covered waffles on the plate, set it on the table, and poured his mum a cup of tea.

"Come, sit down and eat with me. The extra batter's not going anywhere," he told her.

And she did.

They would sit and talk about anything that came up, as long as it was happy. John would tell her about his studies, about how he maybe wanted to become a doctor someday.

* * *

John loved mornings when he woke up to find that Sherlock was out of the flat. He was probably at Bart's morgue, finding more body parts to fill up both the fridge and freezer, but he didn't care.

He would search through the cabinets and find the stash of fresh bread that he wouldn't let Sherlock commandeer for mould experiments. He would put the kettle on for tea, and bring out the butter and jam.

He wouldn't even attempt to make his mother's fluffy, yet perfectly crisp waffles. He could never do it right, despite having the exact recipe and having seen her make them dozens of times.

Tea, toast, and eggs would do. With bacon. Lots of crispy bacon.

He fried the bacon first, flipping it as the grease popped back at him, the satisfying sizzling echoing through the tiny kitchen.

He fried his eggs in the fat as the bacon rested on paper towels. He considered for a moment making bird's nests: bread buttered on both sides, a hold cut in the middle, placed in a hot pan, an egg cracked into the hole and fried. But he'd rather have jam and butter on his toast.

He'd always eaten his eggs over easy. He can't remember eating them any other way. It's always been the way his mum made them for him and that's the way he'd always eat them.

Before he knew it, the toast was popping up from the toaster, just barely golden brown, still white in some places, but crisp. He buttered the toast until it was completely saturated and then spread a giant glob of raspberry jam over the surface. The jam wasn't as good as his mother's, but it would have to do. He hadn't had her jam since the cancer ravaged her body when he was 23.

He was just about to grab his eggs out of the pan when he found that they were missing.

"What the hell?" he asked the air, turning around.

He found Sherlock sitting at the table, fork in his hand, mouth chewing happily.

"Hungry?"

"Starving, actually," Sherlock replied, cutting another piece of egg with the side of his fork.

"Well, that's surprising. Bacon?" John asked, holding out the plate of bacon.

"Sure," said Sherlock, snatching half of the bacon in one swoop.

John sat down with his jam-covered toast as he and Sherlock talked about how much he'd bothered Molly today and what experiments he was working on.

These were John's favorite moments in 221B. He didn't mind his eggs being stolen as long as Sherlock ate something.

Their chats were some of the times they talked about anything other than a case. Sherlock told him about how some day he'd love to do experiments on bees.

"So then we could have fresh honey on our toast," Sherlock smiled.

"If we're still alive and living together," replied John.

"We will be, I don't have a doubt about it," said Sherlock, stealing John's other slice of toast.


End file.
